Love Never Lies
by Omnitrix 12
Summary: Three years since Sly's "amnesia," and now his only crime is stealing Carmelita's heart as Constable Cooper. But history's caught up with him, and he's about to learn that even scrupulous crime has consequences, and love never lies. T for some violence.
1. Strangers Like Me

**I meant to post this last night, but there was a snag. So here it is a night late. Enjoy. :)**

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><p><em>Click-click, click, clicketty-click, ka-chunk!<em>

"Got it," hissed a weasel. By the light of a lone streetlamp, he removed a pick from the door to a jewelry store. He and his gang eased it open, spraying a mist of lubricant onto the hinges every few inches to stop it from making any noise. "Okay boys," he whispered, "Let's go..."

A blast of light shot from inside the shop, catching the startled mustellid right in the face. "Freeze! Police!" shouted a Spanish-accented voice from within.

The crooks scattered, several tripping over each other or their paralyzed comrade. As they split up and down the alley, Inspector Carmelita Fox bolted out the door with her shock pistol in hand, charged and ready to fire again. Without hesitation she headed out of the alley after those who had made for the open street.

The ones who had headed for the shadows thought they were pretty well off. "We'll wait for her to get clear of here, then make a break for it. Right Sam?" hissed a raccoon.

There was no answer.

"Sam? Mac, what happened to Sam?"

There was a brief muffled shout, then silence. As Mac fell silent, the coon decided he'd had enough and made a break for it. Grabbing a drainpipe, he scrambled up with fear spurring him onward. The sound of someone climbing after him forced a snap decision. With a leap, he caught the rail of the fire escape and scrambled up onto it. With the cop a mere few feet behind him, he bolted up the stairs. If he could just get to the roof, he'd have a fighting chance. No police officer could match his super-sneaky thief moves.

Behind him, the cop chased with intense focus. 'This kid's good,' he thought as the young crook gained a few feet with a quick leap toward the next level. 'But I'm better!' He jumped onto the railing and leaped for the next level, just in time to see the boy race up that flight of stairs, still with a solid lead. 'Man, he's really good.'

The chase broke out onto the roof with the junior thief still in the lead. Casting a glance around, he made a break for the nearest escape route, a clothesline stretched between two pulleys. Catching the bottom half, he rode it across the gap. That cop would never catch him now. Once his momentum carried him to the other building...

Right at that moment the line jerked to an abrupt halt as a clothespin jammed in one of the gears. The jarring motion tore his hand loose, and with a scream he tumbled toward the street.

"Gotcha!"

Yanked to an abrupt halt, he looked up to see the cop dangling by his feet from the clothesline and holding into him by his jacket. There was a smirk on the cop's face, that of a raccoon like himself.

"You should know," the cop told him, hauling him up until he could grip the jacket collar in his teeth and use his hands freely, "It takes more than that to escape the long arm of the law." The officer, now balancing his catch on his stomach as he made his way back to the roof sloth-style, managed to talk clearly around the cloth in his teeth. "So what's your name, kid?"

The younger raccoon kept silent. Rule one of thieving: never fraternize with the enemy.

"Okay, you want to be rude, I'll start," said the cop as he hauled them both onto the roof an handcuffed his young prisoner. "My name is Cooper. Constable Cooper."

"So," asked Carmelita Fox once she and Cooper had brought their captives to the station, "Let's make this simple. Who are you and where do your parents live?"

"And while we're at it," added Sly, "What's a kid like you doing robbing jewelry stores?"

The young raccoon scowled. "I'm not going to tell you anything," he snapped, folding his arms.

Carmelita pulled out her shock pistol and twirled it on one finger. "This thing isn't comfortable, you know," she told him pointedly.

Sly put a hand on her arm. "Let me handle this, okay?"

She looked at him, then reluctantly put her weapon away. "Alright, but if you don't get any answers we're doing it my way." And with that she left the room.

As she left, Sly sat down across the table from the kid and pulled a candy bar out of his pocket. He took a bite and set the rest down on the table just out of the prisoner's reach. "So," he said after swallowing the mouthful, "What's your story, kid?"

The young coon eyed the candy bar with hunger, then looked away stubbornly. "I'm not telling you anything," he snapped. "I don't talk to cops."

Sly smiled as winsomely as only he could. "Look, nothing you say will get in any trouble. The only people in this room are you, me, and Babe Ruth here," he added, wiggling the candy. "Just think of me as a friend. We could be family – we even look alike."

The boy still held his ground. "Do you know how hokey that sounds?" he asked.

Sly shrugged. "Eh, what can I say?" He picked up the chocolate bar and took another bite. "Mm, peanuts. Tasty." He waved the bar in the boy's direction. "Look at it this way: if I were so bad, would I have saved your life back there?"

Sly could see that his wheedling was beginning to wear the kid down. This was obviously a child who had been on the streets for a while, and there was no missing the repeated movements of that little throat. The kid's mouth had to be watering like crazy, so Sly decided to move in for the final blow. "I'll tell you what. There's a vending machine right outside. Answer a few questions, and you can have your pick of snacks on my quarter. I'll even throw in a soda."

It was more than the poor kid could take. "Okay, it's a deal!" he blurted at last. "Just, uh, just don't tell the gang I ratted them out, okay?"

Sly nodded and winked. "Don't worry," he promised. "Secrets are what I do best."

A cola and a bag of cheese puffs later, Sly started questioning. "So, what's your name?"

"Larry," came the reply through a mouthful of cheese, "but my friends call me Sly."

Sly blinked, but kept his composure. "Sly, huh? Because you're such a sneaky little guy?"

Larry shook his head. "I think it's mostly because I'm the only raccoon in the bunch, just like Sly Cooper was a raccoon." The kid paused as he thought of something. "Say, you said your name was Cooper too, right? Are you related to Sly Cooper?"

Sly shook his head quickly. "Heard a lot about him, but I wouldn't know. Never met the guy. So, you and your pals look up to him?"

The kid nodded. "Yeah, me and a bunch of other street kids heard about him. All those cool moves he could do, all his famous heists. So we decided to become thieves too and become famous after he disappeared."

"Disappeared, huh?" asked Sly. "Any word on how that happened?"

"Yeah," said Larry, taking a swig of soda and letting out a burp. "But it's so confusing. Last rumor was that he was trying to find some kind of buried treasure, but no one knows what happened. Some say he was buried in a rockslide by this crazy scientist, others say the cops caught him and locked him up someplace or sent him to the chair. Lot of his old contacts disappeared after he went missing, and nobody's heard from him since."

Sly nodded slowly, as if processing this information. "So you and the other kids tried to fill his shoes, huh?" he asked thoughtfully. "What kind of heists have you pulled?"

Larry looked at his feet. "I don't know if I should tell you," he said.

Sly did his best to smile, his tail twitching uncertainly. "Come on," he urged, "I won't bite."

It took a lot of coaxing, but eventually they managed to coax more details out of Larry. Between the bunch of them, he and his gang had shoplifted everything from candy to jewelry, picked pockets, stripped cars, even mugged a few people taking shortcuts through their territory.

"Well," Carmelita observed later as they clocked out, "I guess people on the north side of Paris will sleep easier tonight."

"Yeah, I guess so," agreed Sly, wishing he could say the same. This was the third time this month that they had busted a gang modeled after his own. At first it had seemed almost funny, a blip on the radar and nothing more. Some of the gangs did nothing worse than disturb people in the middle of the night as they raced around playing at Sly Cooper, like so many Robin Hood wannabes with little suction-cup arrows. But some of them really were doing bad stuff. And none of them, it seemed, had the scruples that had defined the Cooper Gang for generations: the deeply ingrained code that forbade stealing from anyone but fellow thieves, or harming any innocent bystanders. And even though he tried to tell himself that these kids were responsible for their actions, or that they were the victims of bad parenting, something in his gut told him he was to-

SNAP!

The popping sound of Carmelita snapping her fingers tore him from his reflection. "Earth to Ringtail," she said in an irritated tone.

Sly shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "Guess I got a little lost in thought."

"Apparently," she replied with her ears briefly reclined. Then she softened. "I was trying to ask you who's driving to dinner tonight."

"Oh, I will," he replied. He needed something to take his mind off the problems surrounding him anyway.

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><p><strong>So, Sly Cooper's got a new life, and a new set of problems. Show of hands, who thinks this is going to get worse.<strong>


	2. Who Are You?

**So, Sly's conscience is bothering him. Let's see if Carmelita is as troubled as he.**

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><p>"Ah, Monsieur Cooper, Mademoiselle Fox," beamed the waiter, a penguin by the name of Pierre as they walked in. "Right on time as always. Your usuel tabel, I presume?"<p>

It took Sly's brain a moment to register. "Uh, yeah, sure," he said noncommitally.

The penguin frowned slightly and scrunched his forehead. "Is something wrong, sir?"

Sly shook his head quickly. "No, nothing. I'm just... just a little distracted is all."

The penguin smiled. "Ah, you are in ze right place then. Come sir, madame, take your seats and put ze troubles of your day behind you. Only our finest for Paris' finest."

Sly smiled appreciatively, but inside he was still distracted. As he followed the penguin it took him a moment to realize that Carmelita wasn't following. "Carm?" he asked pointedly, tugging the elbow which he had looped through hers.

Carmelita blinked and then seemed to come unglued. "Oh, sorry," she fumbled. Pointing to a display of plants, she explained, "I was just, um, admiring the flowers."

Sly chuckled, picked one from the display, and poked it into her hair. "There. Now it looks even better." He planted a peck on her cheek, then turned after Pierre. "Now come on, let's not keep dinner waiting."

Carmelita blushed at the kiss, but inside she was a mess of uncertainty. As she and Sly sat down at a table for two, she could have sworn she saw something in his demeanor, something that was becoming increasingly familiar.

When they first started working together – and shortly thereafter, going out – he had been relaxed, confident, as if he'd been doing it his whole life. Which, thanks to her, he thought was true. The same assured manner that had characterized his days as a thief seemed to fit equally well into being a cop.

But then sometime past his third or fourth month on the force, things had changed. She wasn't sure exactly when it had started, nor when she first noticed the changes. Maybe it was the agitation he had shown after a woman was found robbed and beaten, describing a mob of youngsters dressed in costumes like those of the former Cooper gang. Or perhaps it was the uncharacteristic silence from him for a full six hours after they investigated a store break-in and saw more Cooper clones on the security tape. But whenever and however it started, it seemed as though little by little, the facade she had so carefully put in place for both of them was coming undone. One thing she was sure of: it was something about those wannabes running loose on the street. Their actions were jarring his memory, bringing back the times of the old Cooper, the master thief known the world over.

_'No,'_ she told herself. '_Sly Cooper is gone. It's Constable Cooper now, and it's going to stay that way.'_

_You can't make him change,_ another voice responded.

_'But he's such a remarkable cop,'_ she tried to reason. _'And we have such a good relationship now. He always liked me; surely he won't turn around and leave me behind.'_

_He's done it before. Besides, do you really think he'll be so enamored with you once he realizes you're playing him like a harp? And if he does go back to his ways, think how much more trouble he'll be for his inside knowledge of Interpol._

_'Well, I-'_

So busy was she, mulling these things over as she pecked at her food, that she never noticed Pierre's approach despite the flapping of his feet. "How ees your dinner?" he asked with his usual certainty that it would be excellent.

Carmelita blinked. "Oh, it's fine," she answered.

Pierre looked with concern at both barely-touched meals. "Ees zere somezing wrong?" he asked.

Sly shook his head. "No, everything's perfect. We just... had a long day at work."

Pierre smiled. "Ah, mon amis, do not fret about law enforcement now. You have done good work, and ze streets are safer for eet." He put a wing on each of them in a friendly gesture born of long familiarity. "Now come, enjoy ze food, enjoy ze music, and most of all..." he added with a wink, "...enjoy one anozer's companee."

As he waddled away, Carmelita became aware of the song playing. Their song. She desperately hoped Sly wouldn't ask her...

"You want to dance?"

Inwardly, she groaned. But what could she do? "Certainly," she agreed, taking his outstretched hand and letting him guide her onto the dance floor.

They had danced here often; tango, fandango, and as in tonight's case, a waltz. As she took one of his hands in hers and placed the other hand on his shoulder while his arm encircled her waist, she tried to lose herself in the music. But while her body fell into the familiar patterns, her mind seemed to leave her and wrap itself around her partner, trying to find a way inside his mind in search of the answers she needed. Studying his eyes, she saw the usual happiness tainted by something... different. Was he remembering the first time they danced together? That time it had been a tango in an Indian palace, the night his friends Murray and Bentley stole the Clockwerk wings right out from behind Rajan's back... and under her own nose. His dancing hadn't changed – quick and lively, yet firm and stately. As graceful as a deer, yet his steps so firm that his footfalls seemed to land with the finality of an elephant's.

But while his dancing was the same, what of his mind? He looked at her with an expression of calm, an easygoing and carefree mask that belied one dancing with the woman who had spent years trying to arrest him. But then, he had danced with her much the same when he was simply distracting her fro his true purposes. Was he doing that now, or was he really that enraptured to be with her? There! That twitch in his eye; a speck of dust, or a brief rise from his old personality as it rose confused like Rip Van Winkle into this strange new world that had arisen while he slept?

At last the music stopped, and both of them returned to their table. Pierre had microwaved their food and topped off their glasses, and they ate briefly with renewed enthusiasm. At last she ate the last of her dinner and reached for her purse.

"I'll get the check tonight," Sly volunteered quickly. Was it too quickly? He pulled out his wallet and extracted a stack of bills, peeling off enough to cover the meal and a generous tip. Leaving the plates and glasses neatly stacked, he hooked elbows with her and left.

"Adieu, my friends," smiled Pierre as they left.

Carmelita smiled and waved politely, but inside she was a tangle of doubt. Was all her careful work coming to naught? Was Constable Cooper dying, to be replaced with a new and more cunning phoenix of a thief?

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><p><strong>Looks like Carmelita's got a lot on her mind. Wonder how long it will take for her conscience to catch up?<strong>


	3. How did I get here?

**My apologies for taking so long. My jump drive is missing, with most of my recent writing on it. I'm afraid that means a setback in the latest chapter of White Legend, but not to worry; I'll get the rest of that up one way or the other. In the meantime, here's another look at the mind of Sly.**

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><p>They drove back to the police station, which was en route to both their apartments. Carmelita started to get out of the car, then paused. "Thank you for the dinner," she said, a little more quietly than usual. "It was enjoyable, as always."<p>

Sly hesitated before answering. "Yeah, I had a good time too."

She leaned over and kissed him; he moved at the last second just enough to take it on the cheek. Then he kissed her back. "Goodnight, Miss Fox."

"Goodnight, Sylvester Cooper."

He watched her get into her own car, then drove away, headed for home.

Sly opened the door to a small studio apartment. True to typical bachelor code, it was just a little on the messy side – laundry piled half in and half out of the hamper, TV on a table facing the couch, which had half a bag of potato chips sitting on it. He draped his jacket next to the chips, grabbed a handful out of the bag, and munched as he rolled the top shut and put them away in the kitchen. The unkempt state of things was part of why he had never invited Carmelita over.

He flopped down on the couch and flipped channels for a while. Finding nothing of interest, he turned off the set and thought about doing some reading. He glanced at the copy of Shakespear's _Macbeth_ on his coffee table. _Nah,_ he decided. _It's already ten, and I've had a long day._ He brushed his teeth, changed into a set of blue-and-white pajamas, and went to bed.

However, as he drifted off to sleep, he found the events of that day dancing around in his mind. For some reason Larry's face lingered in front of him, as real when his eyes were closed as if he were looking right at the kid with his eyes open. There was something about that gaze – a kind of shell covering innocence and enthusiasm such as only the very young ever seem to have. That light in his eyes as if he were talking about his favorite sport or a really exciting comic book.

"Just like me at that age," he murmured as he felt himself slide into oblivion.

But Larry's face did not leave him. In his dreams he was haunted by it, by the words the young raccoon had spoken to him. "My friends call me Sly. I think it's because I'm the only raccoon in the bunch, just like Sly Cooper was a raccoon.

"Say, you said your name was Cooper too. Are you related?"

In his dream he could hear himself answering. "I don't know. Never met the guy."

_Only every morning in the mirror,_ a voice answered back.

"Me and my friends heard a bunch of stories about him. All those cool moves he could do; all his famous heists. So we decided to become thieves."

Then the dream took a turn for the worse. In his mind he could see Larry and his friends running around the streets, tearing up cars, robbing passers-by, beating up people who had never harmed them. Then he saw them in a police car's headlights, cornered with nowhere to run. He watched as they were arrested, tried, sentenced. Locked up with kids far worse than them, kids who did unspeakable things and taught them how to do the same. He saw their release, no longer as kids playing a game, but as teens headed for a life of crime. A life of violence and evil.

"No, stop," he groaned aloud in his sleep.

The teenage Larry looked at him now. "I learned it all from you, Sly."

"Stop, please!" he groaned even louder. But the scenes became worse and worse, and his cries grew more and more desperate.

"No! STOP!" he shouted at last, sitting bolt upright in bed.

His chest heaved as he frantically looked around the darkened room. It had all been a dream. That's all it was, right? Just a nightmare.

Or was it? With a feeling of revulsion, he climbed up onto the bed post and reached for the ceiling. Lifting a tile, he brought down a fat folder marked "Sly Cooper."

He gazed for a moment at the file. It was the last item he had ever stolen – the only theft he had ever committed as Constable Cooper. Nobody knew – nobody even seemed to know the file had gone missing.

Sitting back down, he began to flip through the pages inside. At first he had taken it mainly for nostalgia, but after the Cooper-wannabes started showing up he had used it for another purpose. Now nearly half the pages were marked with sticky notes. Dates, names, places connected to crimes that his various dopplegangers had committed. Crimes modeled after his own, but for the victims.

As he read back over the events of his search for the Clockwerk parts, he thought of the kids who had tried to rob the jewelry store. How many rings and other jewelry had he picked from pockets or pinched from rooms? It made sense for the kids to steal jewelry from a place loaded with it.

He passed the page about Rajan's spice operation, with a photograph of the damage after he and his gang had blown open the dam. Next to it was a newspaper clipping – some kids had robbed a house, then blew up a nearby dam with home-made explosives to wash away the evidence. It had been a tough case to crack. How many times he had tried to write the similarity off as coincidence. But was it really? Was there no connection between him and the families that had been hurt, the damage done to half a town just to cover up a crime which might have been modeled after his own? Maybe one or two of the cases weren't connected. But overall, there was no escaping the conclusion that people out there – kids, teens, even grown-ups – were acting out accounts of his escapades.

It was the kids that bothered him most. Half of their crimes were petty, almost comical. A lot of them were so minor that the most they got was a stern talking-to from the police, and then another from their parents with maybe a few weeks' restriction for good measure. The worse ones ended up in juvie.

But he hadn't been a cop for three years and remained ignorant. He knew well enough that while juvenile detention was enough to scare some kids straight, a lot more only learned to do worse by comparing notes with the others there. Like in his dream, those who were incarcerated often came out all the worse for it, better-trained and worse-tempered.

"It's not my fault," he said as he put the book away and went back to bed. "It's not my fault, it's not my fault..."

But being a cop had taught him that excuses, like drugs, became less placating every time you used them. Somewhere deep in his marrow he knew that he was lying.

The first thing he did after clocking in the next morning at the police station was to fill up a tall mug of coffee.

"Good morning, Cooper," greeted a voice behind him.

He almost jumped out of his skin before turning to greet Chief Shepherd. "Oh, hi."

The dog laughed. Looks like our famous cop is losing his edge. Usually you hear me coming a mile away."

Cooper rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Uh, yeah. I kind of... had a late night."

Chief Shepherd smiled. "Burning the midnight oil on the job," he asked knowingly, "Or taking in some fine dining with your partner?"

Sly blushed. "Yeah, once in a while donuts just don't cut it anymore, you know?"

The chief laughed. "No need to explain it to me. Just don't let your mind get _too_ distracted, alright?" Leaning in close, he added, "And take care with Carmeilta; I'd hate to see us lose one of our best."

Sly nodded. "Of course."

As Shepherd walked away, Sly found himself thinking again of the previous night's dining. Of parting with Carmelita, not to mention the goodnight kiss. He reflected that he could have taken it on the lips, but no. The last – the only time he had ever kissed her on the lips had been that time after they stopped Clockwerk. The make-out fake-out, as he had come to think of it, distracting her just long enough to handcuff her to the railing and make his escape.

It had been a lie. The first of so many lies. Every time he kissed her now, or let her kiss him, it was a lie. His very presence here was a lie.

_How did I get here?_ he asked himself.

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><p><strong>Oh, what a tangled web we weave...<strong>


	4. Suspicious Minds

**Mt apologies to everyone I've kept waiting. Things have been crazy here in real life, but now the next chapter is up.**

**I should also be posting more of White Legend before much longer, so keep your eyes peeled.**

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><p>Sly was quiet as they got into their cruiser and headed out on patrol. Usually their time on patrol was spent in lively conversation; movies, concerts, arts (mostly fine, sometimes martial), whatever. But today Sly for one didn't feel like talking.<p>

"Is something wrong?" asked Carmelita.

"What? No, why?"

"You don't seem yourself this morning," she replied.

"Oh, yeah." The raccoon fumbled for an excuse. Tapping his travel mug in the cupholder, he offered casually, "I think I got decaf this morning by mistake."

He was spared further discussion as the radio crackled to life. "Dispatch to car 14. We have a report of a break-in at 1524 Main Street."

Carmelita picked up the mic. "Dispatch, this is Car 14 responding. We're on our way. Over and out."

Sly turned the car north and hit the gas.

Three minutes later found them at the store in question. An anxious-looking tabby cat wearing a maroon polo shirt with the EZ-Shop logo printed on the right breast pocket stood by the front and waved earnestly when he saw them.

"They went in through the back!" he babbled. "I was going to go in, but-"

"Hey, hey, calm down," Sly interrupted. "Let's take this one step at a time. Name?"

"Stan Lewkowski," said the cat.

"When did you find the break-in?"

Stan looked at his watch. "About seven minutes ago, I think."

"Have you gone inside?" asked Carmelita.

Stan shook his head earnestly. "No, I didn't go in. I just opened the door when a piece of glass fell out of the window, and that's when I realized someone broke in. So I called 9-1-1 from my cell phone and waited out here for you to arrive."

Sly nodded. "Good, the scene should be just as the burglar left it. Show us where he got in."

Stan led them into an alley and pointed to the shop's back door. It was just barely ajar, with pieces of glass laying on the ground in front of it, no doubt remnants of the circle that had been cut from the door's small window.

"You say the piece fell out of the door when you opened it?" asked Carmelita.

Stan nodded. "It's never been like that before. My boss is very particular about keeping things in top condition."

Sly thought for a moment. "I guess the thief cut the circle out to reach in like they usually do, then put the glass back so it would be less conspicuous."

Carmelita nodded, her lips in a firm line. "Right," she agreed. Turning to Sly, she said, "Let's go in. Stan, you wait out here. We need to make sure the scene isn't disturbed until we know what we're looking for."

Sly put on a pair of gloves and eased the door open. Stepping inside, they walked through the back room of the store. Things seemed in order – nothing broken, nothing overturned. Whoever had done this, they reasoned, must have known exactly what they were after.

When they came to the front of the store, both of them recoiled at what awaited them. The cash register on the counter had been smashed, its drawer laying beside it completely empty. But that wasn't the real shocker.

A beaver, roughly in his forties and somewhat round, lay on the floor by the register. An ugly mark on his forehead with dried blood around it and on the floor made it all too clear he was dead.

After he caught his breath, Sly tried to mask his horror. Even after three years on the job, he had never come across an actual murder. "I guess this changes things," he observed.

Carmelita frowned at the joke, then noticed something in the ruins of the cash register. "You check out the body," she said quickly. "I'll examine the register."

Sly put out a hand to stop her. "We have to call in an investigative team," he told her. "Let's get out of here and call HQ."

Carmelita nodded. But as Sly stepped past her and led the way out, she quickly snatched up a small object which had been tucked into the corner of the cash register. She had to stifle a gasp when she saw what it was. How many times had she seen that emblem? A small blue-and-white token in the shape of a racoon's face?

It could only be the calling card of Sly Cooper.

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><p><strong>What? Who could have left that calling card? It has to be another Cooper-copy... right?<strong>

**Spoiler Alert: There is way more to this than meets the eye.**


	5. Devil In Disguise

**My apologies to everyone, particularly Claire, for the long delay.**

**From here on out, I'll be looking for ghost writers if demand for fanfics keeps up. In other words, if someone voluteers I could give them a synopsis, they'd write up the basic idea for the next chapter of a fanfic, and I'd polish it to make it fit with the rest. Full credit will be given on these chapters (which I guess defeats the use of the term "ghost writer," but oh well). Chances to write will be on a first-come first-serve basis unless I decide otherwise.  
><strong>

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><p>Back at police headquarters, both officers underwent a quick debriefing before being told that they were going to investigate the case. Carmelita raised a hand.<p>

"Yes, Officer Fox?" asked the chief.

Carmelita tried to hide her unease. The calling card in her pocket not only confused her, but reminded her that she had actively interfered with an investigation – tantamount to an unpardonable sin for a cop. "Has any evidence turned up to tell us who did this?" she asked.

The chief shook his head. "Not so far. The boys from crime lab are working the place over as we speak, but we don't know who left any of the fingerprints yet. They could be the beaver's or this Lewkowski fellow's, or any of the dozens of customers their shop had every day." He pushed a button on the intercom. "Chief Shepherd to crime lab. Anything to report?"

"Yes sir," someone on the other end buzzed back. "We've made a copy of the security tape and checked it over. It shows the deed clear as day. But we got lucky."

"Lucky how?" asked the Chief.

"The system's an old model that runs on an auto-re-record. Once it runs out of film, it goes back and starts taping over what it had before. If we had been five minutes slower in finding the tape, the evidence would have been erased."

"Well don't take five more minutes to get that copy in hers. I want it set to when the new stuff stops and the old stuff picks up."

"Roger. We'll send it right over."

It took less than a minute for one of the techs, a coyote, to bring the tape in. He handed it to the chief, who popped it into a VCR and hit play. A grainy image, evidence of a low-priced security system, showed police officers milling around the EZ-Shop for evidence. One dusted the register for fingerprints while another traced a line around the beaver's body.

Chief Shepherd growled. "I wanted it set to-"

Before he could finish, the cops vanished. The scene dimmed a little, evidence that it was night time, and the beaver was up and around, locking the register and settling other matters as he closed the shop for the night.

"Here we are," said the technician. "The victim seems to have been killed at about nine o-clock, right at closing time. We're guessing this is around then, just after the thief cut his way in. It was definitely the work of a pro, because the store owner never heard a thing. Now watch closely; just before he turns his back... there!" He hit the Pause button and pointed. There in the doorway leading to the back of the shop lurked a figure, crouched and wary.

"That's the first glimpse we get of the burglar,"the tech explained, advancing slowly as the murderer waited until the beaver turned his back, stepped up behind him, and killed him with a single swipe of some kind of weapon.

"Now," said the tech, "He's obviously being wary of cameras, but we get a good view of his face right about... here." He froze the film again, and Carmelita heard Sly draw in a sharp breath.

The clothes, the cane, even the face of the murderer, were his own.

Chief Shepherd popped the tape out. "Get this to McCowski," he ordered, referring to the department's artist, "And have him draw up a sketch of that crook. I want his face on every wall in town, yesterday."

The technician grabbed the tape and raced out of the room as Shepherd turned to the two officers, who still stared in surprise at the now-blank screen. "Not a pretty sight," he acknowledged. "Apparently the rash of Cooper clones has reached this point. You two have done a good job of cleaning them up so far, and I expect nothing less from you now. Can I count on you?"

Carmelita nodded slowly. "Yes, but-"

"Good. I'll see to it that the boys in tech get you a copy of the footage and any other evidence you need. Make sure you keep in touch with them about any..."

Sly rose to his feet. "Thanks for the help, Chief," he murmured, "But I've seen enough." And without a word, he left the room in a daze.

Carmelita raised a finger. "I'll see what's eating him," she replied.

The truth was, she knew all too well.

Sly didn't bother to slow down as he exited the building, and with his head start, Carmelita had to run to catch up. "Cooper, wait!" she demanded, latching onto his arm and planting her feet.

Sly stared at her with a look of shock on his face. "Who _was_ that?" he demanded. "He looked just like me!"

Carmelita hesitated. What should she tell him? For that matter, what did she _dare_ tell him?

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><p><strong>What indeed? Any guesses?<strong>


	6. Brother, My Brother

**Sorry for the long delay. I'm not sure how the next chapter will go or when I'll be able to write it with my schedule being what it is, so any assistance would be welcome.**

**Merry Christmas!  
><strong>

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><p>At last Carmelita sighed. "There is... well, there is something I have been keeping from you," she told him. "The murderer on that tape is Sly Cooper, the one people sometimes mistook you for back when you joi- when you lost your memory, I mean. Your brother."<p>

He seemed confused for a moment. "My brother?" he echoed. "But I thought you said I had no..."

"Living relatives, I know," she confessed. "I never told you Sly was your brother because I thought you might do something reckless about him."

"Reckless. Right," he answered, his expression dripping with sarcasm even if his tone hadn't been. "Like lying to my partner, right?"

She winced at the rather jagged point he'd made. "He disappeared under doubtful circumstances around the time you lost your memory, so it was assumed that he was dead. I was hoping it just wouldn't come up."

On the inside, Sly was impressed at how readily she improvised her lies. But on the outside, he remarked, "No wonder people keep looking at me funny." He reached for his belt and pulled out his rarely-used shock pistol. "Well, I guess it's time we arranged a little family reunion."

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><p>They returned to the scene of the crime, looking for any evidence of where "Sly Cooper" might strike next. "Interpol has already looked this place over thoroughly," Carmelita protested. "If he left a flea here they would find it."<p>

Sly didn't answer. He had never been the type to kill an innocent in cold blood, but he knew how to think like a thief at least. He could figure out criminals in ways no police detective could hope to match. "I know, but we have to give it a try," he insisted. "You check out here, I'll search in the back."

As he scouted the rear of the store, Sly felt his fists clenching and his teeth grinding together. What he had witnessed was so fiendish, so brutal, that he doubted whether there would be enough of this Cooper copy left for even Interpol to find if he got to him first. Mingled with that fury was confusion and indignation. The security footage had been poor, but it was clear enough for him to see that the thief had operated with confidence and skill equal to his own when he had lived a life of crime. This was no lark like the other Cooper-wannabes. This one had practiced, a lot. Probably a hitman of some kind in the past. So why had he taken up Sly's identity now?

_'There's only one creature who can answer that,'_ he thought grimly. _'And when I find him, I'm _going_ to find out.'_

Carmelita, meanwhile, found a blind spot in the security system and studied the calling card she had hidden away. It was the same as others alright, even the same paper stock. She sniffed it. Even the smell was similar. A knot of guilt churned in her stomach, and she pushed away her conscience's prodding reminder that she was racking up lies again. She remembered all too well the tense months immediately after she created "Constable Cooper" out of the ashes of the real Sly, but after a while she thought she had gotten the hang of it, that everyone was satisfied with her lies and that she could go on with her life. Now all her work seemed to have about the life expectancy of a sand castle below the tide line. Hiding evidence, making up new lies that only seemed to be further hurting and confusing her partner, not placating him in the least. He was a mass of mixed emotions, she could tell, at the imposter whom he now believed was his own flesh and blood. What would happen if he discovered that she was every bit as fake as the Killer Cooper, and that she had tainted him in turn with the deception.

_'Quiet,'_ she told the guilt in her gut, and tried to focus again on the card. She turned it over and over in her hand, wishing it would tell her – wait a minute...

She squinted, studying the card with a new intensity. There was something in the corner that wasn't usually there: a tiny stamp of a flame. But what could that mean?

A sound made her look up and hastily hide the card, but it was only Sly in the back. Seeing that she was still safe for the moment, she was about to resume studying the card when her eye fell upon the cigarette lighters on the counter. Could they be hiding the key? Pocketing the card, she took several lighters out of their places and discovered a tiny slip of paper tucked under one. It was only half the size of the slip inside a fortune cookie. In neatly printed letters a message read, "Take a gamble at the racetrack at eleven o' clock tonight. Double or nothing says you lose."

It was too obvious. It had to be some kind of trick, but it was their only chance. "Sylvester," she called, "I think I found something."

Sly came to take a look. "Where did you find that?" he asked.

"In the lighter display," she replied. "It says to go to the racetrack at eleven."

Cooper frowned. "Eleven? I don't think so. He'll probably expect us to come early so we can stake things out, so he'll be there at nine to get the jump on us. Let's shoot for seven."

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><p><strong>Sorry for the short chapter. I was low on inspiration. I'll try to make the next part really dramatic to make up for it.<br>**


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